A man sits on a wooden bench
unable to know home
and with all of his knowledge
He is dead
He sits alone

The bench, surrounded by forest-
Listens for him
as the wind rushes along the tops of the trees
while the man rests his palms on his knees-
His dried knuckles have cracked and wrinkled
for the man lived lived and lived-

They had begun on the coast
wearing large smiles
eventually finding this forest
where a bench begged to be built
along the edge of a soon to be
orchard

She had picked their bench
a nicely fallen oak
and asked for it to point
here, toward the slope,
where they could sit hand in hand
and listen to the wind
as it passed along the tops of the trees
bringing sounds of the ocean again

Now she was gone
and he sits all alone
looking at the forest
knowing he’d never
be home

‘People think I’m crazy. I think a lot. I think when I think. If my eyes seem volatile, they may be, or I’m lost in a non-linear perpetual sliding thought and when I break my mind I come out of it.’ So the frog hopped, asking the young girl to repeat herself. ‘Never mind with you,’ she said skipping away flicking at the long grass. She wore a yellow hat.